Lying Men Never Sleep
by bronzillium
Summary: People aren't supposed to hurt the ones they love. But they do, and it's too much sometimes. Especially for those of us who carry demons on our shoulders and can't find a place to lay them to rest. When they won't hide, we have to let them out somehow.
1. The King

**This is my first Sherlock fic ever, I've got no idea what I'm doing. But this idea has been nagging at me for quite a while, so here it is. Hopefully it's not that terrible.**

**Be warned, English isn't my first language, so I apologize in advance for any errors.**

**Enjoy~**

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Miracles don't happen overnight. Angels cannot call forth a gift from God and expect it to arrive by morning light. Maybe in a perfect world, where everything flows seamlessly, a masterful plan only takes seconds to conduct. But everything takes time, in reality. No grand scheme can be performed in a single day; two, maybe. For Mycroft Holmes, a man built on patience and perfectionism, that's a bit more reasonable.

The night before his brother would unknowingly (perhaps unwillingly) commence phase one of the plan that in artful hands could be called a masterpiece, Mycroft paced and paced and paced until he was sure he'd worn a track in the elaborate carpeting of his study. He'd spent months planning; calculating every factor that might intrude or otherwise jeopardize his little puppet show and preparing for every disaster that might come his way.

Everything had to be perfect.

Had he been granted more time, there wouldn't be a wrinkle in sight. It was a tricky thing, trying to fool the world's most brilliant and extraordinary man, and attempting so required tact and meticulous attention to detail. Only three people could play cat and mouse with his little brother and have a chance at winning: one was dead; one was everyone's most feared opponent, the classic arch nemesis, the force with which only a madman would dare tamper (and there always existed someone who couldn't resist the temptations); the third was an invisible variable, overlooked by both players and spectators alike. That could prove advantageous, in the right situation.

Now one major flaw remained in his way, impeding on the near perfect conditions required to begin. When wasn't there something that rose to stop him? Someone feeble minded person always opposed the forces in command, choosing to let havoc loose on the innocents he strived to protect.

It was unfair.

She was likely to spoil the whole operation, even if by mistake, as the mouth she had been blessed with lent towards spitting out secrets at the most inopportune moments. Or so he had observed in countless hours of footage detailing her actions from the day she had entered his brothers life. Thankfully, mindless idiots were easy to manage, and even easier to distract from what was happening right before their eyes.

All it took was a little bit of magic.

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A long two days later, after the whole ordeal had gone into play and most were sold on a false idea, he stood in the rain. Exhausted. Surrounded by weeping angels and stone crosses, beneath a tall tree that shed its leaves like the clouds poured rain and the people beside him cried. They huddled under black umbrellas not unlike his own, clutching each other for a shred of heat or a comforting touch. They all mourned one man whom many never thought could have had such a powerful impact on their lives. Not until he had entered storming and left as rapidly and deflated as an afternoon drizzle.

Sherlock Holmes.

Now among the the most infamous names of the decade, known in every household as a con, a _fake_. The few who attended his funeral were the ones who held onto the tiny shred of hope that this man had not shamed them into believing his grandiose speeches and spectacular tricks; wasn't a liar, a hoax, as the media painted him.

_"Those are all just stories, aren't they? They_ have _to be . . ."_

_"But he was so_ _real!"_

Real or not, greatness cannot stand strong forever. Sometimes it just has to fall for the sake of the greater good. If not gradually, by force. Or, on rare occasions, of its own will. Amongst those who stood on the muddy grass and courted loss only two understood what that meant. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her, shivering. Alone in the cold.

It was almost impossible to believe that she, the tiny morgue mouse who made a living by writing the final chapters for the strangers who passed through her hands, had provided the spark required to involve the right parties simply by begging for help. Crocodile tears had rolled down her cheeks into an untouched cup of coffee. Here there were none.

People were beginning to part, saying their last farewells_. _As the thin rain retreated into the porous earth, he turned and walked away from his brothers newly erect grave. He was the only one who hadn't cried (or so very strongly wanted to), aside from the mouse. Not that it mattered. The heavens had, those who barely knew him had. He could save his for another day, when they actually held weight.

With a heavy scowl and a deep set brow, Mycroft pulled out his phone from his coat pocket and made a call. He left behind the final man to pay his dues; the loyal soldier, alone, at the empty grave. But he didn't need to know that, now did he?

Every step was scripted. Every action predated.

As he entered a trademark black town-car he huffed. Rest would be unattainable. The next few months would compose of endless days and long nights spent controlling what his brother saw fit to disturb. The king never sleeps, even in times of peace.

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**Reviews would be greatly appreciated, and the second chapter will be on its way soon. Thank you!**


	2. Morning Light

**As promised, chapter two! Different POV this time. Hopefully it's not that terrible.**

**Again, English is not my first language, apologies.**

**Enjoy~**

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It was always raining in London. It never stopped, as if someone had set the rainstorms and sporadic drizzles on loop. At least, it always seemed that way these days.

Watching slow drops of rain travel down the window, forming intricate webs of water, he sighed. It poured so often that he could almost picture a giant ugly monster hovering over the city, crying its heart out, intentionally drenching the commuters on their early treks to work with the sole goal of ruining common people's days. He wondered if anyone ever noticed the thing. Ever looked past the brim of their umbrella towards the beast and challenged it.

Someone must have.

That person who did (he was sure the type was out there somewhere) mustn't be common. If they had the courage to stare up at the harsh reality of life and keep walking without letting it get them down, they'd be a hero. If they could harness the bravery to stand a little straighter and keep looking forward when everything around them was threatening to turn sour, they'd be a hero.

Heroes aren't common.

But there was no monster, really. Not out there. It only existed in his worn and tired imagination. His mind, crowded by negativity, exaggerated minuscule ideas when he was alone with the dark thoughts for too long; bent everything out of proportion until the world made no sense. Dramatized the simple things and numbed what was important. It made him believe that there were actual heroes out there, carving paths for other lesser people to follow. It convinced him he'd met one or two over the years, when all that really exists on earth are common people.

_Common_, just like him and everyone else.

Staring out at the city blurring outside the window, he sighed again. Nothing felt the same any more. The tears that glossed his eyes but never fell felt wrong. The stubble dusting his chin felt wrong. The shirts that hung too big on his body felt wrong. Everything was off.

Rolling over so he lay closer to the window, in the tiny shred of dim light that came in past the rain and fog and pollutants, Greg Lestrade wished that he wasn't so alone. Tucked under the thin covers, he wished that there was still another body laying beside him, pressed against him, providing much-needed warmth in the cold bed. Closing his eyes for a small moment, he wished he was needed and cared for and loved like he used to be. Those days were long over, though. No one else but him had inhabited the flat in years. Not since the divorce.

Some days he wished he hadn't gone through with it in the first place. Some days he wished he'd fought for his wife back, even though she'd lied to him from day one. She was never loyal, even when he was irrevocably devout to her, always going around behind his back when he was too busy sweeping the streets of crime to spend time with his family. Work always got in the way, no matter what you did for a living. In some relationships the time apart can strengthen the bond between a couple, fuel the passionate need to see each other again soon. In others it shatters a person's life, like jagged cracks tainted with blood on a mirror, leaving them with a hollowed out space where their heart used to be and half a mind to get out of the love business for good.

Business. Work.

He stopped going to work weeks ago. Probably already lost his job, decades of hard work down the drain. Replaced with a novice, no doubt. He couldn't remember his last words before he had walked out of his office and holed up in his flat. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd gotten out of bed for something other than to take care basic bodily functions. Not since the funeral.

The funeral. _That god damned funeral._

Three in a row. He couldn't handle that. Why did Sherlock have to be so selfish? He was selfish and _not_ common and not here. It wasn't right. Nothing was right any more.

Greg was getting too tired for this. Too old to keep losing colleagues, family, _friends_.

When the news of Sherlock's death -_suicide-_ reached him, he had been in shock. Years before, when he'd picked the junkie off the curb and set him straight, he always dreaded that call, always feared the self-destructive genius would finally off himself. It was everyone's expectation that he would go that way. He'd spent countless hours wondering what would become of the young addicts' life, hoping, praying, everyone was wrong. That Sherlock was stronger than that. He'd never expected something that brash these days, when things had actually started getting better after the arrival of the good doctor. Well, better in a personal sense. He wasn't inclined to kill himself on a whim anymore, though he took countless risks for the sake of solving a case as if he was teasing the idea of death, waiting for it to come to him instead of seeking it out around every corner.

He'd changed in that aspect, even though he was still a danger to himself. Greg had taken to worrying less and less as the days passed, especially since the introduction of a moral compass neatly wrapped in good judgement and clinical kindness.

At the funeral he hadn't so much as shed a tear. He still hadn't, and he was starting to feel guilty for that. When they'd lowered the detective consultant's casket into the ground, he _couldn't_ cry for the sake of keeping up his companions' moral. God knows they all needed something to keep them afloat. He did too, but he was the alpha male, the pack leader. He had to stay strong, even if he didn't have a shoulder to weep on waiting at home.

Now, when he needed an anchor, a spare life saver thrown his way, what did the (ex) DI get? An empty bed and a weak, frail body. He couldn't remember his last meal. He couldn't remember the last time someone had taken care of him, or he of himself. He couldn't remember the last time his own well-being had been the primary concern. Years, probably.

Decades.

His entire life had been devoted to taking care of others. Not once had he taken a break. Not once had he splurged on himself. Not once had he taken a deep breath before charging forward to take the lead when no one else dared stand to the challenge. Many called him a hero for that. He didn't buy it. Those don't exist. Only common people do.

Greg just couldn't handle this anymore. With no responsibilities urging him to be at his best, no work ethic pressuring him to get things done, he was letting himself go. It was pathetic.

Watching the morning light grow stronger by the second, penetrating the soft haze of the rain, he rolled over again and squirmed his way out of bed. Taking a few minutes to gain his balance as he attempted to stand, the (former) DI began a slow pace towards the kitchen on debilitated legs. His muscles protested with every step, strained and stiff from lack of use. He needed an extra strong cup of coffee to start the day, and maybe a double dose of painkillers to numb everything for a while. Maybe longer, if he took enough of them.

Maybe enough to join Sherlock, wherever he'd gone.

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**Oh, heavens. A cliffhanger. I'm fond of those (even though you can sort of tell what's about to happen). Sorry!**

**Reviews would be lovely. Thank you!**


	3. The Boss

**Back with more!**

**Every chapter will probably be in a different POV, hope that's alright.**

**Anyhow, enjoy~**

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Why do simple things have to make themselves so difficult?

He sighed, a sad sound that filled the room and made the small space feel twice as empty as it really was. As he shifted through the mess of pills on the floor he cursed whoever decided that these things had to be so god damned small. Jim complained less about taking them, sure, but they were too tiny for his fingers to grasp. Picking them up was hell.

Once he'd collected the colourful array off the floor and gotten them on the table, he worked on separating the different meds. The boss had knocked over his entire menu when he had thrown his third tantrum of the week, sending his lifeline flying all over the stained peach-coloured carpet. After he'd gotten the boss settled, sated, with a full stomach and his morning dose (and finally cleaned up the mess) Sebastian Moran needed a break. Taking care of him was getting more troublesome by the hour. But what could he do except his job?

He plopped down on his cot, right outside of the boss's door (just in case), and scoured for the remote among his mass of blankets. He found it and turned on the news.

He deserved rest just as much as anyone else.

Watching the box flicker with colours and flashes of things that didn't even seem remotely interesting, he started to dose off. Sleep was a godsend these day, when Jim did nothing but complain and yell and hit him with feeble fists as if that could change the preset course of his unfortunate life.

His eyes began to fall closed.

Whispers of foreign airs, howls in the night, gunshots and salty skin teased his senses.

_". . . new developments have been released on the investigation of fake genius Sherlock Holmes's suicide that may change how many see the exploits of the man who supposedly fooled hundreds by posing as a 'consulting detective' to gain fame..."_

Jolting out of the taste of better days, he sat up and turned the volume up a fraction.

_". . . eyewitness reports have come to light which . . ."_

He frowned. Those first few weeks the news and every other social media outlet had been flooded with nothing but talk about the big mans _death._ He'd had more than an ear-full of people's opinions every time he went out, to the shoppes or around the corner, and he'd been sick of it all before they had even set the whole plan underway. All he wanted to know was how Holmes was keeping this all under control.

_". . . conspiracy theorists have been saying from day one that . . ."_

Crime rates had spiked.

Many (at least those who still believed) were terrified to leave home without an angel safeguarding their streets.

The Yard was in a panic.

The boss saw him around every corner, in the shadows where the monsters crept.

_". . . perhaps indicates a fall from that height could not . . . "_

They'd known he was real. And now he was no where to be found.

It wasn't his job to pay attention to any of that, though. As much as curiosity nagged him sometimes, he wasn't to go meddling. The big man wasn't paying him to think, he was paying him to take care of the boss until everything settled down.

The reporter went on and on about government cover-ups and crazy ideas that actually weren't far from the truth, as far as he was concerned.

After a brief hesitation, Sebastian dutifully muted the mess of lies and truths. He didn't need Jim to wake up from his drug induced haze in another fit. The boss was too sick for more stress these days. He was delicate, and though he would never say it, it was scary.

This game Holmes had them all wrapped up in had better pay off.

Time was running short.

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**Hopefully this isn't too confusing, and hopefully you liked it even though this one was rather short.**

**Reviews would be greatly appreciated. The next chapter will be on its way soon.**


	4. Action

**Sorry this one is so short!**

**Enjoy~**

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It's too hot.

Pale, dry skin that's used to roughing out cold days isn't meant for scorching heat-waves or rooms that feel like furnaces. Curls made for billowing around haphazardly in sharp winds shouldn't have to brave humidity that drenches the body from scalp to nail in sticky sweat. Cheekbones that slice through silence certainly don't belong in loud bustling streets that don't quiet in the night.

The conditions are horrendous.

Unfortunately, to right the wrongs of a brother lead astray, any predicament must be muddled through, no matter how unsavory.

Typing rapidly on multiple devices at once, sitting on a balcony to escape the musk of soaking plaster, with the sun beating down on everyone without the mercy of a stray cloud, he sighed. A small surrender to the fervent emotions that he kept under lock and key.

He wanted to be home.

He had built a life, and he needed that back.

A few more days and it would all be over. The plan would be complete, all events taken care of, and they could all finally rest at ease.

[SENT] Today. -SH

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**It'll pick up more soon, I promise. **

**Reviews would make me oh so happy.**

**Thank you!**


	5. Early

**Here we are! Sorry it's taken so long. Hopefully no one is lost yet.**

**Enjoy~**

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Early days don't suit anyone. They promise nothing but endless hours spent laboring over worthless information to the working class, and guns pointed at the back of heads to those who's methods border on the unorthodox.

"It's going to be a long day today, isn't it Kate?" she asked from beneath the covers, groggy, tired from a long night playing power games and inducing temporary lisps.

"Very. He's scheduled to contact you this afternoon," her assistant and right hand woman responded as she threw the curtains open. "You'd best get up soon. Morning is almost over."

She groaned and stretched beneath the too warm covers, reluctant to kick them off just yet. After a moment she gave in, rolling over so her back was to the windows and her eyes were spared from the blinding light. She arched her back and sighed, like a feline perched atop luxurious cushions after a decent nap.

That's what they considered her in this game, wasn't it? A puma, ready to pounce on its prey and sensitive to scratches behind the ears from the right hands.

Kate crossed the room to her bedside and sat down next to her employer. "Sleep well?"

"Better than-"

_A hiss._ The sound of a snake inching its way towards another victim interrupted her.

Irene Adler frowned and sat up against a mound of rich velvet pillows. "Oh, he's found me", she muttered, reaching for her mobile on the nightstand, simultaneously waving the other woman away. As her assistant exited the room, she thumbed through the the texts that had arrived while she slept.

[received 1:08 am] Leave. -SH

[received 1:10 am] He will find you. -SH

[received 1:13 am] He isn't an idiot. -SH

She rolled her eyes. He didn't like to have any fun, _now did he? _

[SENT] Its been weeks. We're careful.

[received 11:47 am] He's watching. -SH

[SENT] How long?

[received 11:49 am] Since the beginning. -SH

_That's impossible._ The safe house was supposed to be a fortress, somewhere they could survive for years right underneath his nose without raising any red flags.

[SENT] Where?

[received 12:01 pm] Bento Gonçalves, Brazil. Leave within the hour. -SH

Irene closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The Holmes family would be the end of her. Getting out of bed, she donned a robe and went downstairs to tell Kate the _fantastic_ news.

It's kind of silly. They're all supposed to be dead or clueless, but this whole event was sucking more life out of them than being on the run or keeping quiet had. She could have denied his approaches, yes. She could have run away, never to be seen again, yes. She could have sold him out, yes most definitely.

She also owed the man her life, and never backed down on her word to repay a debt.

What's a woman to do?

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**The next chapter is in the works.**

**Reviews would be appreciated, thank you!**


	6. Weeping Angels

**So sorry this took so long, got caught up with exams. Updates should be up more often in the coming weeks.**

**Enjoy!**

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Though they had never been that close, a lingering loyalty brought her to the hospital a few days after he was admitted. Perhaps it was the respect for who he was that allowed her some sentiment towards him, despite how quickly everything had crumbled thanks to his association with the _freak_. Maybe it was an unspoken acknowledgment that he represented a father figure in times when things were looking down and no one could really help, but he was there to pull a blanket over her shoulders and perform a short speech that turned rotting orange peels to golden apples.

Whatever it was, although she wouldn't confess that it existed, it delivered her to the hospital at a too late hour with a bouquet of carnations and a bag of mixed sweets in hand. Locating his room wasn't difficult, but standing in front of it was. Was she even welcome here, after all that had been done and said?

Taking a deep breath, Sally Donovan knocked on the door.

A faint voice beckoned her in and she opened the door, coming face to face with Detective Inspector Lestrade drowning in a sea of cables, tubes, and wires. His skin was a dull papery colour, drained of its typical tan. His hair seemed more white than gray. His bones poked out from beneath his gown, threatening to burst through his skin. Granted, she'd been told he had looked far worse when they'd found him, but it was surreal seeing him like this.

He had always been their rock. A strong figurehead in a storm of criminals and free-running emotions. Now he was nothing more than a pile of ash and dust.

Broken. Gone. Desolate, like the not-right department he'd left behind, throwing everyone off kilter with his absence.

Swallowing past the thick feeling that collected in her throat, Sally turned her attention to the person who'd let her in. A girl of about twenty sat folded in on herself, knees drawn up to her chin, in a chair right beside his bed.

"Hello," Sally said, taking a tentative step inside and clicking the door shut behind her. "I'm Sally Donovan, I worked with your father."

"Yes, I know," the girl replied curtly, as if her manners had escaped her in the wake of so much tragedy.

"Right," Sally muttered, biting her tongue to hold back a snide remark. They'd told her to play nice when she had commented on visiting him. Said the family (or what was left of it) didn't need her sharp tongue dallying around their misery. Not after the sudden passing of the mother and only son on the afternoon of the freak's funeral, then this mess.

"I brought these for him. To brighten his spirits when he's up." Sally made a vague gesture with the flowers, suddenly aware of how inappropriate this might have been. Given the circumstances, she didn't even have a place here. What was she thinking, giving a grieving girl sweets for a man who had tried to take his own life?

But she only nodded and pointed at a long low table lined with vases and gift boxes and cards and other things that just didn't make sense, as if no one was sure what to do when someone they cared for tried to escape the thing they all tied themselves to so greedily. Cautiously she stepped over and placed her objects down among the array, feeling like a commoner paying tribute to an ancient god at a shrine. In a silly way that's not really amusing, but pathetic, that's what people are really doing when they give the sick useless things and mutter halfhearted get-well-soon's. Begging for their own entities to give them better passage because _look, I tired to do something human!_

Facing the girl again, who watched her with eyes that spoke of delicately managed authority and rapid fire thinking, but were fogged by sleepless nights, the real situation hit her a bit harder than it should have. She didn't look much better than him. Heavy bags under her eyes, shoulders sagging with the weight of grief and confusion. Strong willed, yes. More able than most to maintain herself (a trait passed down from her father, no doubt), but slowly crumbling. Falling to natural hurt. All the signs were there that she wasn't okay, couldn't do this alone anymore.

Stains on her cheeks. Red nose. Tissues hidden up her sleeves.

She cries, then. Every hour of every day, maybe. A beautiful thing with white blond hair; a weeping angel at her father's side, tormented by too many things gone wrong, left to suffer under the harsh florescent lights. In a strange way she couldn't comprehend, it pained Sally to see that. She can stand aching victims, dazed witnesses, corpses with no home to rest in. Broken marriages and fallen men. Damaged people with so many kinks in their armor that they could topple over in a light spring breeze.

Somehow, this is different.

Lestrade is family - will always be family - no matter the circumstances. That comes with the closeness of the job, the knowledge that someone is always at your shoulder; has your back when the guns are pointed at your temple, not the skies. Seeing so much rip away at him and his kin compelled Sally to step in in the only honest way she knew how. Bluntly and without preamble.

"You look like you could use a cup of coffee."

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**The next chapter should be up soon, possibly within a week or so.**

**Reviews would be appreciated!**


	7. Atlas

**I apologize for the long gap between chapters. I'll be putting them up more often from now on.**

**Enjoy!**

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Days that burn the soul with the memories of past mistakes are as painful as the events themselves multiplied by guilt and the thought that they could have gone differently. When those days become a persons lifestyle something in them dies. It's tragic to see them sink into a state of perpetual darkness, where they spend the waking hours lost in memories and the nights screaming a name no one believes in any more. It's a worse feeling to be there as it all happens, unable to help. Stuck as a bystander, an audience member with a yearning to take the stage but no script to read from.

Every time she tried to reach out whatever she did either sent him into an angry stupor or reminded him of something that hurt so much that he wouldn't speak for days at a time; lost in better memories and perhaps hunting down an explanation for why this had to happen to him of all people. All she could do when he locked himself away or merged deeper into the shadows was bring him tea and offer her shoulder if he should have it, even though he never took either.

He didn't cry by light, or at nightfall. She suspected he stopped at the same time he stopped going to therapy. That was so long ago.

He took it surprisingly well those first few days, almost alarmingly so. She had done what she could to distract him from the media's lies until he could regroup. Shock was the only look on his face for a lengthy while, as if he understood that his own eyes had betrayed him in some evil way. He'd sobered for the funeral, like any proper man, but afterwards it was hell. As if the underworld itself had come crashing down on his broken shoulders for him alone to carry.

He was gone.

He wasn't a brave soldier any more, just a melted plastic toy left out in the heat for too long.

Watching after him was the best Ms. Hudson could do at this point. And even then she knew it wasn't enough. If she left for too long he wouldn't eat. If she didn't wake him up some mornings he wouldn't get up. If she didn't remind him he still had a life to live he just shrunk back and hid away.

This morning had been no different. She'd found him seated on the staircase, half asleep, laying with the steps digging into his back since having stumbled in drunk at an ungodly hour. Ms. Hudson had tried to get him to stand, go wash up and shake the bad habits of the previous night off his back, but he'd simply fallen asleep on the couch instead. With a reluctant sigh she had decided to go for a walk and give herself some rest and fresh air before returning home to watch after him again.

It was an endless cycle. He hurt himself and she rushed in to dust the pieces off the carpet to save them for later, just in case someone with able hands came around to put him back together. But as each day passed without a savior arriving shrouded in golden light she found that maybe this would be all they'd get: no closure and too many regrets.

As her feet carried her away from her daily stress, Ms. Hudson thought back to the better days when the boys would get home at strange hours, laughing over some mishap or other that had happened on one of their adventures. Such a lively couple they'd been. Sherlock and John had breathed danger and fear and love back into her life.

Undoubtedly she wasn't the only one who missed it.

Not too long ago there had been photographers, fans, journalists, and numerous reporters crowding their street. Now there was no one in sight, no one to smile at and no one to skirt by. No one to hold close and no one to yell at and no one to feel at home with. Not any more.

With the soft wind tugging at a few loose strands of her hair, she understood that this was her price for mourning - for living.

She could never leave Baker Street. She was the backbone. Should she waver, should she try to depart before anyone else, the buildings would crumble and the streetlights would go out. The tender woolen blanket cradling the sanity of the earth would unstitch itself.

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**Is this depressing enough yet?**  
**Reviews would be appreciated. Thank you for reading this far!**


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